Never Let Go
by Quadrophenia73
Summary: Under normal circumstances, Sherlock would have denied such a situation. But he supposed that this wasn't a normal circumstance. And he had to admit, John was rather warm.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi, everyone. Here's something that obsessedwithstabler and I cowrote. This is our first time writing Jawnlockkkk!**

**Disclaimer: We don't own Sherlock. We're going to go cry now. We don't own the cover image either, but whoever created it is awesome. **

John Watson had heard gunshots before. The ear-splitting gunshots combined with the sound of bombs exploding were the soundtrack of his time in Afghanistan.

Despite the familiarity of a gunshot, John winced when the distant shot rang out and echoed in his ears.

The sound that bothered him the most was a stifled moan followed by the dull thud of a body hitting the floor.

"Sherlock!" he screamed, dropping on his knees beside the fallen consulting detective. The bullet had lodged itself in the left side of Sherlock's abdomen merely a second ago but dark red blood was already staining his shirt.

Sherlock let out a pained sound when John's strong hands firmly applied pressure to the burning wound. He closed his eyes momentarily.

"Sherlock, no. Keep your eyes open!" John demanded, trying to keep his voice calm. "Say something. Pay attention to me."

"It'd be easier... to pay attention... if you'd be interesting," he breathed. "Don't be dull."

John fought the urge to roll his eyes. Only Sherlock would protest against boredom while he was bleeding profusely out of a wound in his side. "Deduce something about me."

Sherlock bit his lip against the blinding white hot pain that had begun in his side but now seemed to travel throughout his body. "You're not wearing a ridiculous jumper," he noted, forcing himself to maintain a strong voice. "You've just shaved and tried to cover up where you cut yourself with a blade."

"That's it. Keep going." John took a moment to glance at the wound. It was difficult to tell the depth of the wound, but judging by the amount of blood and the location, he could assume it was more than just a flesh wound.

"Your hair is parted differently. You've obviously taken more time to get ready than you normally would. You wouldn't do that for an investigation. You're clearly meeting with a woman tonight." His voice had become weaker but took on a slightly disgusted tone when he mentioned the date.

"Or I would just have you think that." Sherlock's eyes closed and John felt a fresh surge of panic. "Hey!" He lightly patted Sherlock's cheek. "Open your eyes, Sherlock!"

It took a long moment but the clear light blue eyes opened a sliver. He was losing awareness. The formerly blinding pain in his side was becoming numb. John's concerned features grew blurrier with every moment. "J-John..." His normally husky voice came out as a mere whisper.

"I'm here." Swearing softly, John carefully lifted his best friend into his arms. Sherlock's dark head lolled against his chest. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

Sherlock's lips moved but his words were inaudible. Sirens blared and red lights flashed as an ambulance pulled to a stop on the curb.

John briefly resisted when the medics tried to pull Sherlock out of his arms. He stumbled blindly to his feet and followed after them as they placed Sherlock in the ambulance. When one medic started to protest, John gave him a look that quickly silenced any protest. Then he climbed into the ambulance and sat down close to Sherlock's head. A few moments later, the medics were working on Sherlock and the ambulance pulled away from the curb.

"Sir?"

John looked up and realized one of the medics was talking to him. "What?" he bit out.

"What's his name?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

There was a brief, stunned silence on the medic's part, but he quickly recovered. "And yours?"

"John Watson."

"Relation?"

Relation. The mere word sent John's brain into a tailspin. What were they? Flatmates? Coworkers? Best friends? How could he sum up the entirety of their relationship with a single label? He couldn't. Without conscious effort, he laid his hand on Sherlock's arm and gripped it tightly when Sherlock moaned weakly.

"He's my friend," John finally concluded. His words were insufficient, though. What they had went beyond mere friendship.

The medic nodded and made a note before cutting Sherlock's shirt away so he could examine the wound.

Unable to look, John turned his head and focused on Sherlock's face. "Don't you dare leave me," he growled softly.

Sherlock forced the corners of his mouth into a small smile, letting out a pained groan when the ambulance hit a bump in the road.

He fought to keep his eyes open, but his eyelids were a dead weight. Darkness lingered, slowly closing in as his eyes slipped shut.

The last thing he felt before the darkness claimed him was the sensation of John's lips against his temple.

_Don't leave me, Sherlock._

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**Now, minions, review! Review! Review! **


	2. Chapter 2

**new chapter so let's say yay new chapters!**

**Disclaimer: Do obsessedwithstabler and I look like Moffat and Gatiss? NO. SO THAT MEANS WE DON'T OWN SHERLOCK.**

Sixteen hours later, an exhausted John Watson sat by his best friend's hospital bed. Sherlock had been in surgery for several hours before his surgeon came out and told John that he was in stable condition. Much to John's relief, Sherlock had listed him as his next of kin, in the event of something like this. John was led to Sherlock's ICU room, where he pulled up a chair and sat down beside Sherlock's bed with the intention of not moving an inch until Sherlock opened his eyes. Several nurses had checked on Sherlock and remarked on how good of a friend John was for sitting with him. John just smiled. They had no idea.

Eventually John felt himself begin to relax despite the uncomfortable chair he sat in. Sherlock's condition was still stable and he felt comfortable enough to close his eyes. Before he did, however, he pulled his chair closer and folded his arms on the bed, a few inches from Sherlock's arm. Then he laid his head on his arms and closed his eyes, intent on taking just a short nap...

Sherlock regained some sense of consciousness half an hour later. He opened one eye and cringed when he was greeted with the light overhead.

He felt a thick wrap of gauze surrounding his side, but the cause was foggy in his mind. Why was he in the hospital? Why couldn't be remember anything?

And why did he feel so happy and dizzy?

For the first time he noticed John's blond head resting on the bed close to him. Blissfully unaware of his actions due to the painkillers he had been administered, he poked John's head and tweaked a strand of short blond hair.

Startled out of sleep, John sat up and wiped at his eyes blearily. When he moved his hands, he saw Sherlock smiling goofily at him. "You're awake..."

"I am...?" Sherlock blinked in confusion, the lopsided grin still stretching across his face.

"You are." John scooted his chair closer to Sherlock's bed. Sherlock's blue eyes were glassy; clearly he wasn't feeling any pain. John was relieved at the thought. "You should go back to sleep for a while. Your body needs time to recover."

Sherlock let out a long laugh. "Sleep... sleep is dull, Jawwwwnnnn." He reached out and lightly poked John's cheek.

Chuckling at Sherlock's heavy drawl, John reached up and gently grasped his best friend's hand. "I know it's dull, but your body needs it. The nurses seem to think you're going to sleep on and off for most of the next few days."

Sherlock scowled for a moment before staring at John long and hard. "You've got short light hair... your facial expression says it all. I deduce that you're a hedgehog."

Bemused, John smiled. "A hedgehog, huh? What does that make you? An otter?"

He gazed at John for a few more moments as if contemplating the idea. "An otter... it's a plausible theory..." he yawned.

"Plausible..."

Silence settled over them quickly and Sherlock's eyes closed again. When he felt confident the younger man was sleeping, John leaned down and feathered his fingers lightly through Sherlock's dark, unruly curls. The last sixteen hours had been the most harrowing of John's life. Now that he was certain Sherlock would be okay, he felt relief pulse through him. His knees wobbled as he hesitantly leaned in and ran his forefinger over the side of Sherlock's face, memorizing the contours and warmth of his skin. Once he'd had his fill, he sank back into his chair and breathed deeply, cradling his head in his hands.

And that was exactly how Sherlock saw him when he awoke some time later. The dizzying effect of the medication had worn off enough so that he could recognize his surroundings. He vaguely remembered hearing a gunshot a split moment before the bullet went through him. He touched his left side. Surely enough, the area throbbed with a dull pain underneath the thick layer of gauze.

The memory grew foggier but he distantly recalled John's voice pleading Sherlock to stay with him. He shifted his focus to the chair that John occupied. The other man still sat with his head cradled in his hands, unaware that he was being watched.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "John."

John lifted his head at the sound of his best friend's voice. His eyes settled on Sherlock's face and he offered a small smile. "Sherlock... How are you feeling?"

"Hurts a bit." He studied John closely, narrowing his eyes. "You've been here the whole time," he noted.

"Of course." John was a little surprised Sherlock could think he would have done otherwise. "I was worried about you."

Sherlock continued to stare at him. "I'm fine but you're still concerned." He managed to bite back a smirk at the slight look of annoyance on his friend's face. He could read John like an open book.

"I'm not even going to argue with you." John leaned back into his chair and smiled. Sherlock was okay. That was all that mattered.

"What a shame. A good argument would make this much less dull," Sherlock sighed, shifting uncomfortably in the stiff bed.

"I know how to make this less dull." There was a mischievous glint in John's eyes.

Genuinely surprised, Sherlock rose his eyebrows. "What?"

"See? You're already less bored."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to. I can see it in your eyes."

"Can you?" Sherlock smirked. "You should leave the deductions to me, John."

John started to laugh. "Not when your deductions lead you to the conclusion that I'm a hedgehog."

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock asked in confusion.

"You woke up for a little while earlier. I made sure you were given the best pain relief, so you were very...out of sorts. You insisted I was a hedgehog."

"I did not." Sherlock gave him a look of disagreement.

"Oh, yes, you did. You also thought you resembled an otter."

"Why didn't you correct me?" Sherlock glared at John as if they were arguing over a deeply serious subject rather than animals.

"Oh, I could have. But you were too interested in saying my name." John mimicked Sherlock's earlier drawl perfectly.

He tried to harden his glare, but John's impression of him caused a chuckle to escape past his lips. He started to push aside the scratchy blanket. "I'm bored here. Let's go back to the flat."

"Absolutely not." John scrambled to his feet and grasped Sherlock's shoulders firmly. "You aren't leaving here for a week, at least."

"I can't stay here a week, John! Anderson will lower the IQ of the entire city by then. The flat is much more interesting."

"I know it is, and I'm sure Anderson won't get to the entire city. But right now, you need to rest." His fingers dug gently into Sherlock's shoulders. "You lost a lot of blood and your body needs time to recover."

"Take me to the flat and I can recover at home," he argued. "You were an army doctor. Your mental capacity is much better than the idiots here."

"Possibly," John acknowledged. "Still, I would feel better if you agreed to stay here."

"And I would feel better if you would take me out of this place."

"Sherlock..." The younger man's big blue eyes were pleading despite his hardened expression. "I suppose you would heal faster in familiar surroundings."

"Ah, then it's settled." Sherlock began to sit up, cringing and grabbing the wound area.

Shaking his head, John smoothed his hand absently over Sherlock's face. "Listen to me," he instructed gently. "Relax and concentrate on what I'm saying. Breathe.."

Sherlock relaxed, focusing on John's comforting voice rather than the increasing pain. He wouldn't deny that it hurt more than anything he had ever experienced, but the thought of going back to the flat with John still remained in the front of his mind.

John kept an eye on the heart monitor by Sherlock's bed. As his heart rate slowly decreased, John settled down but he kept one hand on the back of Sherlock's neck. Soon his heart rate was back in a normal range and John let out a relieved breath.

"Tomorrow, Sherlock. I'll take you home tomorrow."

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**This story has one more part to come! So it's almost over, but have no fear! We're writing some other fics together that will be posted as soon as possible! **

**I have also diagnosed both obsessedwithstabler and myself with Reviewlackiosis. I discovered this disease a few years ago. Symptoms include foaming at the mouth, fangirling at unexpected intervals, despicable thoughts, Reichenbach-worthy feels, and repeated deaths. Risk factors include not receiving at least 739872138912 reviews, being a fangirl, taking part in the Sherlock fandom, and being an author.**

**Treatment consists of thoughtful reviews from other fans. Please. Help us cure this awful illness.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Well, folks, here's the last part of this little story!**

**Disclaimer: Hey, if Sherlock is ever listed for auction on Craigslist, i guarantee that obsessedwithstabler and i will purchase it. Until then, not ours!**

John stayed by Sherlock's side through the night and into the morning. When Sherlock's physician came in to give a report, John informed him that Sherlock would be discharging himself and John would be taking him home where he would recover in peace. His physician was furious and doubted John's ability to care for Sherlock properly, something John took great offense at. Of course he could take care of his best friend! He gave the physician a stern tongue-lashing that left the man's ears smarting and finally the physician backed down and left the room, muttering about stubborn fools. Only when he was gone did John's shoulders slump. Maybe this was a bad idea. John had no concerns about his abilities as a doctor, but would it really be worth it to give into Sherlock's demands only to rush him back here when he collapsed at the flat?

Sherlock, on the other hand, had no problem with the fact that he was leaving the hospital. He would much rather allow John to mother hen him in the comfort of their own flat rather than be in the care of (in his opinion) empty-headed idiots he didn't even know.

Leaving the hospital was no easy or comfortable task. His left side flared with pain with every moment, but the thought of his own bed helped to divert his concentration away from the burning sensation.

After a seemingly long and rough cab ride, Sherlock found himself standing in the foyer of beloved 221B Baker Street, leaving heavily against the shorter man as they trudged slowly up the wooden staircase.

John took slow, measured steps as he guided Sherlock up the stairs. His muscled arm went around Sherlock, mindful of the wound in his friend's side. By the time they reached the top of the stairs, he was completely supporting Sherlock's weight. John reached into his pocket and retrieved the keys.

"John? What are you doing, love?"

Mrs. Hudson... John turned his head in the direction of the older woman's voice. "Hello, Mrs. Hudson. How are you?"

"I'm well, dear." Her eyes widened when she caught a glimpse of Sherlock tucked into John's side. "Oh, my! Is-"

"He's fine, Mrs. Hudson." John fumbled with the keys and finally located the right one. "I just need to get him inside."

"O-Okay, sweetheart, if you're sure..."

Shoving the key into the lock, John gave Mrs. Hudson a measured smile. "I'm sure. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

"I'll bring you boys dinner later."

"That would be lovely." He pushed the door open. "See you then." Gripping Sherlock firmly, John guided him into the flat and closed the door with his foot. Sherlock groaned sleepily and nuzzled his face into John's chest, causing John's heart to skip a beat. "We're home, Sherlock."

With John half-carrying him, Sherlock stumbled towards his bedroom, letting out a groan of discomfort.

John kept Sherlock steady as he took the younger man into his bedroom. "Easy..." he murmured as he pulled the covers back and eased Sherlock back against the pillows. Sherlock's skin was covered in a thin sheen of sweat and John absently brushed his hand over the younger man's forehead. Grabbing one of the pillows, he propped it against Sherlock's wounded side.

Sherlock wouldn't admit it, but in the cab he had momentarily considered that perhaps he had been wrong in his insisting to leave the hospital. However, the negative thought vanished once John pulled the soft sheets over him.

"Side hurts," he mumbled, reaching a hand towards the injury.

Although the ride home had caused the wound to burn with pain, Sherlock felt much more comfortable than he had in the bland hospital.

"I know it does," John tutted softly. "Here..." With gentle hands, John guided Sherlock's body until he was curled protectively around the injured site. He knew this would alleviate some of the pressure and allow Sherlock to sleep so he could slip out of the flat and procure a few things they would need.

Sherlock closed his eyes and burrowed deeper under the covers, resting his dark head against the pillow. John squeezed his shoulder gently, and the last thing Sherlock heard before he gave into sleep was the sound of his friend's retreating footsteps and the door creaking shut as he left the room.

John returned to the flat a few hours later, his arms full of groceries and assorted medical supplies. He tried to be as quiet as possible as he entered the flat and closed the door behind himself. It was dark and quiet; he assumed Sherlock was still sleeping. Relieved, he quickly put away the groceries before quietly slipping into Sherlock's bedroom.

Despite the darkness, John could see a Sherlock-shaped lump in the middle of the big bed. Despite his worry, he smiled. Damn stubborn man...

Sherlock groaned and without thought John hurried to his best friend's side. "Sherlock?" he whispered into the darkness. He eased himself down onto the edge of the bed.

Sherlock stirred, opening his eyes slightly. Through the dimness of the bedroom, he could see a familiar figure sitting on the bed, silhouetted against the dark. "John..."

"I'm here." John placed the back of his hand against Sherlock's forehead. He was warm to the touch, warmer than he should have been but not quite feverish.

The dark haired man murmured something and shivered, fumbling to pull the covers further over his body.

Moving quickly, John set up an IV with a saline solution to prevent dehydration, then injected a powerful painkiller into the tubing. Once he had done all he could, he settled a hand on the top of Sherlock's head, the only body part visible to him.

Within several moments, the pain began to subside enough for Sherlock to peek up at John, peering up at him as an animal would while hiding in a den.

"Are there any cases?" he murmured, his voice muffled by the blankets piled on top of him.

"I agreed to take you home, Sherlock. Not to let you work on any cases right now," John said firmly. "You're going to rest, even if I have to stay right here and make sure you do so."

"But I'm bored, Jawwwnn," he whined, unintentionally drawling his friend's name once more.

"I know," the older man soothed. "I know you're bored. But I know you're tired, too." His fingers feathered slowly through Sherlock's dark curls. "I'll bring you something to read later."

"Case files," Sherlock insisted decidedly, burying himself back under the covers. "New ones. With pictures."

"Yes, your majesty," John chuckled. "Later."

Sherlock seemed to take that as an answer and directed his scowl toward the covers, which were doing nothing to keep him warm. Shivering, he pressed his face into the pillow. "I'm cold."

Frowning, John moved his hand to Sherlock's forehead. He was warmer than he had been the last time John checked. "You may be developing a fever. If it becomes any higher, I'll have to take you back to the hospital."

"No." Sherlock glared at John. "I'm not going back to that god-awful place. It's full of people with tiny useless minds." He shivered and attempted to wrap his arms around himself.

John was quiet for a long time as he grappled with what his mind told him and what his heart was screaming. "You're a stubborn man," he finally declared, startling Sherlock. He grasped the blanket and began tugging it away from Sherlock's vice-like grip.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock groaned, his teeth chattering exaggeratedly when John moved the covers.

"You're cold," he replied simply. Finally he managed to wiggle beneath the mountain of covers. Sherlock was lying on his injured side, and with only a little hesitation on his own part, John scooted up behind Sherlock until his chest was pressed firmly against the younger man's back.

Under normal circumstances, Sherlock would have denied such a situation. But he supposed that this wasn't a normal circumstance. And he had to admit, John was rather warm.

Sherlock continued to shiver, so John placed a hand on Sherlock's arm and began rubbing it slowly, almost methodically. "I'll give it tonight," he murmured, his nose brushing against the back of Sherlock's neck. "If your temperature doesn't come down, I'll drag you back to the hospital no matter what you say."

"No." Sherlock gave into John's gentle grasp, settling back against him. A teasing smirk flashed briefly across his face. "People would talk about this."

"You've never cared what people think," John pointed out as his hand moved from Sherlock's arm to hold him gently. "People are idiots."

Sherlock nodded in agreement and closed his eyes, struggling to hide a yawn as he turned slightly to relieve the pressure on his side. John's hand rested on his arm, rubbing comfortingly.

Sensing he was too tired to continue talking, John held Sherlock more tightly, mindful of his injury. Sherlock emitted a content groan and sighed. "Sleep, Sherlock. I'll stay here."

John lay there for hours afterward, simply listening to each breath Sherlock drew. By the time morning arrived, the fever was gone and Sherlock was back to his cantankerous self. John continued to take care of him for the rest of the week, and though he didn't invite himself back into Sherlock's bed, Sherlock awoke each morning with the scent of John on the pillow next to him.

**ENJOY THE FLUFF BECAUSE SOONER OR LATER WE HAVE EVIL STORIES TO COME YAY EVIL.**

**But as i said, this little fic has reached it own. REVIEW LOVELIES!**


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